Finding Home

There’s a small town in Georgia, where the fields are wide and the pine trees grow tall. Everywhere there, is somewhere I’ve been running from. Still, all of my paths lead back.

Home is hard, when you’ve been gone so long. I still pass through, and try to be patient, and slow. I can never stay too long, and when I leave, I wish I had more time. Sometimes, I wish I still had a bedroom in my father’s house. I still climb into closets when I’m feeling sad. Anything to keep those that say they love me from knowing how much I hurt, sometimes.

On a corner, on a road that’s now been paved, sits a house that used to be yellow, but the walkway is the same. There’s a front porch with cement steps, where Gran and I would sit. Where she’d paint my nails and make deals so I would get better grades. The pot was never sweet enough. I still bite my nails, but I always push the cuticle down. I can still feel that place, still smell it in my memory. Poppy is cutting the grass, and I’m helping Gran dust the living room. Summer sun filters in through the glass.

There’s a school on a hill that I barely recognize. Memories are in place, playing one after the other, but I can’t feel anything. The only thought I spare for the girl that walked there, is I wish I had been bolder. I smoke cigarettes now when I drive by, and I roll my eyes at the memory of trying to fit in. I tried to squeeze into the prettiest of boxes, like one of Cinderella’s stepsisters, managing to stuff a fat foot into a delicate slipper. It’s no wonder that I eventually shattered beneath the weight.

There’s a sandwich shop in the tiny town square, and every year, I’m amazed that it’s still there. I was kissed for the first time out back, in the passenger seat of my girlfriend’s car. I asked her to open her mouth, so I could feel the weight of her wet tongue on mine. I still remember the pleasure, and the sting of guilt. I couldn’t wrap my heart around how being a girl, falling in love with another girl, could be a sin and still taste so sweet.

There’s a church surrounded by farmland. I don’t even drive by anymore. But I still remember the alter inside, where I bowed my head and begged God to take away the sin in my flesh. I would always rise, knees aching and heart still bleeding. I left for the last time with all the grace I could carry. There’s still a Bible in my nightstand. I write my poems on the pages, and hope there’s more holiness in my fingertips.

There’s a little sister, the only one I’ve ever had. I told her all my secrets, and she worried about what would happen if mom and dad found out. I was jealous of her, because she was so good and had nothing to hide. I’ve learned since then, we are all carrying bruises inside. Her burdens present themselves as perfection, while mine just run away so they can be free.

Yet, through all my leaving, I don’t know if I’ll ever be gone. The act of growing up leaves scars, and I often wonder, what would have happened if I had stayed. If I had learned to open my mouth and say what I mean. I’m still sucking on the bitter of resentment, still trying to convince myself, that everyone was doing the best that they can.

At seventeen, I finally found my way out. Since then, I’ve called my Grandmother every week, right up until she had the stroke. I have to remind myself that she hasn’t died, but is sitting there in her home, robbed of the ability to speak. My mother says she cries all the time, and I know it’s because she misses me. I’m still trying to figure out how to be there and to be far away, at the same time.

In the midst of the disconnect, I still long to be held by my mother when I cry. I want to feel the softness of my grandmother’s fragile hands in mine. There are now wrinkles around my mouth, perfect reflections of my bloodline. It’s hard to know that although there’s every evidence that I am not the same, I am still carrying the fingerprints of all the hands that rocked me as a baby. And no matter how much distance I put between us, I still catch myself calling them Home.

Home has rarely been where I’m standing. As hard as I try to make it somewhere else, Home has always been the gravel road where my father taught me how to drive. It will always be the sound of the saw mill every Saturday morning. My heart will always yearn for my grandmother’s unconditional love and for my father’s pride.

I cannot sever myself from what I’ve been taught. Pencil fades over time, so I always use a pen to write on the backs of photographs. The secret to good penmanship is going slowly. There’s a place for everything, and everything in its place.

I expect I’ll find my place someday. And it will be at my father’s bedside, telling him stories that he once told me. Like how I have an ancestor that rode a steam engine off a cliff, and how it was really my great-great-great grandfather who invented the cotton gin. They say we’ve been there forever, each generation taking great care of the one before.

I tell myself not to rush, for the time will come when I must return. I’ll finally be present, when my parents are at the end of their days. I’ll tell them that I still believe in God, and I’ll comfort them with assurances that He will greet them on the other side. And it won’t matter if it’s lies. Until then, I’m still just passing through, from time to time, collecting photographs of a home whose backroads I’ve forgotten. Everywhere there, is somewhere I’ve been running from. Still, all my paths lead back.